Butterflies
by sea
Summary: The war has long since ended, and Trowa tries to live a normal life, but someone from his past keeps invading his thoughts... Yaoi: 3x4/4x3.


* * *

# Butterflies

## [by Meerchen][1]

* * *

I get paid?"

Trowa stared at the check Catherine held out at him, not quite comprehending the words she spoke, although she had already repeated the word "salary" twice. The magazine he had been paging through lay forgotten in his lap, as he tried to grasp the concept of this totally new thing happening to him. To be presented with a pay check, for real work he had done. It had never happened before, and he didn't know how to react.

"Of course you do, silly. It just took you some time to pay for that tent you ruined a couple of years ago, or you would've seen this one earlier," Catherine winked.

"Oh," he mumbled, while accepting the check out of Catherine's hands, eyeing it curiously.

Five thousand credits, the check stated in bright red letters. Trowa had no idea how much money that was; he couldn't remember ever paying more than a few copper coins for a daily meal or a cup of coffee. Most of the time, he just stole what he needed, although he had dropped that particular habit after the war; everything he needed he got at the circus anyway. What was he supposed to do with this money? He had no use for it here.

"Why don't you go buy yourself some new clothes," Catherine answered, as if she had read his mind.

"Do I need more clothes," he asked, a bit confused. What was wrong with his current set?

"Well, for starters, I can see the colour of your underwear through the tear over your butt," she swatted his behind playfully to highlight the problem, "and although it's very modern, I doubt you really want to show off that sexy posterior of yours to just about anyone who walks by" she concluded, smirking slightly.

Trowa turned his head around, attempting to eye his behind for the said holes, but failed because of the angle. A hand manually confirmed Catherine's findings however; there was a tear right through the fabric on the top of both legs. Absently, he wondered why he hadn't noticed it before. Probably because he didn't particularly care. But Catherine thought it strange...

"Oh," he frowned.

"Men," Catherine sighed, "I swear you're all the same. Do what you want with the money, Trowa, but please at least try to have some fun. The circus isn't everything; you haven't been off the grounds for months. Go out and see the world! Shop! Live a little!"

Trowa smiled at outburst of the purple haired circus performer he called his sister, "if you insist, madam," he curtsied playfully.

Catherine sagged. "You know I worry about you, Trowa. I only want what's best for you, please forgive your old sister. Do what you want without asking yourself if it would be the most successful route to take," she gestured. "Life isn't a battlefield, there is no great strategy needed here, you have to let go of it sometime. Get yourself a normal life," she whispered, eyes averted to avoid anyone seeing the beginning tears.

"Catherine, I'm fine," he pulled a strand of her hair behind her ear, smiling reassuringly. 

"What's that smell?" someone suddenly yelled from outside, and Catherine's eyes widened.

"Oh no, my soup!" and Catherine was gone out of their trailer in a whirlwind.

/I'm fine,/ he repeated to himself, smiling for no apparent reason other than that it felt good. It wasn't a habitual lie, and it felt like the right thing to remind himself of. He was fine. It felt fine to be alive, just for once. Although he still didn't know what to do with the money. /Live a little,/ he thought. Catherine didn't think he really lived, although he was quite content himself. How did one live anyway, outside the battlefield, and outside the circus? He honestly couldn't tell, and all of a sudden, a rare curiosity took control over his mind. What did normal people do anyway? He decided to go exploring.

* * *

Trowa found himself at the main street of the little town the circus was visiting, just after lunch the same day. Catherine hadn't pushed the issue about clothing, but when he thought about it, he realised she was right. The current pair of jeans had lasted over four years, and was nowhere near the colour they had once been when he acquired them. Not to mention they were starting to feel a bit too tight. He guessed he had put on some weight after the war. 

/I'm getting fat?/ he wondered, and pinched his stomach. /This is what normal people do, I can do this too,/ he smiled inwardly at his discovery, remembering Catherine doing the same and complaining. /No extra layers of anything there though,/ he concluded, and attributed it to the acrobatic training he went through every day. Still, the jeans hugged his legs like a second skin, and had to be replaced before he could no longer take them off at night. 

The shops displayed their merchandise in the windows, and from the small price tags, Trowa could tell that his first pay check would not last long in this part of town. He wasn't stupid, the people crowding the streets were young and fashionable, and the shops probably sought to take advantage of them by rigging the prices, no doubt. Despite this, he found himself staring at a blue tuxedo in one of the windows, as it mixed with his reflection in it, and for a moment he wondered how it would look on him. The price tag informed him that it was way out of his reach, and he marvelled at the little feeling of disappointment that flicked through his mind. Until only hours ago, he could care less about clothing, now he found himself desiring a tuxedo he would never have any use for anyway? The realisation made him smile a little, and he took it as another sign he was in fact normal after all. Or at least getting there.

Suddenly, a movement inside the shop, just behind the blue fabric, caught his attention, and he gasped a little, quite involuntarily. The blond hair and the pink shirt quickly disappeared behind the stalls of clothing, but his mind had already made the connection. Quatre? His body reacted before his mind could, a little jolt of something forming in his stomach, heart picking up the pace. For some reason, he couldn't move, so there he stood, frozen in his tracks, staring at the tuxedo in the window. His mind screamed at him to do something, anything – enter the shop and talk to Quatre, run away, or simply leave, but his body would not obey such commands. He couldn't remember how long ago it was since he had last seen Quatre, surely over a year.

A feeling of... anticipation, he thought the right word would be, settled firmly in the pit of his stomach, and he wondered if this was normal? Did normal people feel this way too? He focused on the feeling, and decided he rather liked it. Proud of himself for finding another normal thing to do, Trowa was startled out of his daydreaming as the door to the shop opened, and the bell on it bid the visitors farewell.

Before the feeling of expectation could be dispelled, the young blond that had just exited the shop turned around, revealing a young woman that didn't look like Quatre at all. As she turned towards Trowa, he realised he was staring, and still smiling. Quickly turning away, his smile faded, and he suddenly found the window of the shop very interesting. The blonde woman and her friends giggled before they ducked into another shop, and left Trowa in the silence of the street. 

The feeling of disappointment he had previously experienced returned, only much stronger this time. Trowa quickly moved onwards, puzzled. It hadn't been Quatre. Suddenly he didn't feel like shopping at all anymore, but purposefully picked up his pace, intending to leave the town as soon as he could. He couldn't identify the new feeling that nearly tore his mind apart, and he didn't particularly want to be normal if this was how it would be. It hurt, he thought, only it was a mental pain, not a physical one. 

But why? He couldn't come up with a really good excuse, other than he hadn't seen Quatre in over a year, and perhaps missed him a little. But only a tiny bit, he told himself. /This is normal,/ his mind informed him, and he dimly wondered about it. /I wanted it to be Quatre, so my mind played a trick on me,/ he concluded. Quite normal. But why would he miss Quatre like this?

Feeling tired, disillusioned, and a bit lost, Trowa eventually slowed down his near running pace, to stop outside a cafe. He could use something to drink. Situating himself by a table outside the shop, he ordered a cup of black coffee, and was persuaded to have a bun to go with it. As the hot liquid warmed his throat, he thought of what had just happened. He thought he had seen Quatre, /you wanted to see Quatre, so you did/, his mind reminded him, and he had... overreacted. It was a totally new thing happening to him, but then again, he rarely left the circus in the first place, and the sordid bunch of performers that gathered there surely didn't lend themselves to any easy mix-ups with his former Gundam allies. Still, he couldn't remember this happening before, and decided to test a theory.

The crowd slowly pulsating through the veins of the city easily became subjects for his test of comparison in order to provoke further reactions. Different cultures mixed in front of his eyes, some looking more exotic than the others did. He decided that a black haired woman in her early thirties could have been Wufei, the hairstyle was similar, only a bit longer. Trowa examined the woman, and waited for the fluttery feeling to return. Nothing happened, although she really looked like Wufei if he squinted his eyes. He even averted his gaze, and then sharply turned his head back towards the woman, to surprise his senses. Still nothing. Beside a puzzled look from the woman, who hurried away with a wide eyed look, that is. He decided to be more discreet. After 10 minutes of testing, his cup of coffee was empty, the bun eaten, two Heero's had passed, one woman with a braid that would make Duo jealous had been scared away, but still the flutters in his stomach refused to return.

It was odd. Both the feeling and why it was so random and unpredictable confused him. It felt like being caressed on the inside, he thought, by something soft like flower petals, or butterflies flying about. Butterflies sounded like a good comparison – he would have as little control over them as he had over his new feelings. Being no closer to solving the mystery, Trowa decided to finally go shopping for some clothes. Cheaper clothes. He asked the maid in the cafe, and was given directions for a local shop of one of the bigger store chains, that would have affordable clothing, according to the girl. He thanked her for the advice, and was eventually on his way to why he had come to the town in the first place.

* * *

Endless lines of clothes lined the floor of the big store, and Trowa felt possibly more lost there than trying to solve the mystery of butterflies a little while ago. The shop seemed to be sorted after type of wear; he had just passed the shirts, and was now staring helplessly at more black jeans than he had ever seen before. He peered at the other customers in the shop, but no one else seemed to be lost or have problems finding what they wanted. He guessed this was one of those normal things he had to learn, and quickly attacked the closest rack of jeans, with the mission to find the perfect pair.

A few minutes later, he gave up. Not only were the trousers sorted by length, but also width, and while Trowa could easily measure the length of the trousers as they hung on the rack, to find the right width he had to first pull the garment out of the rack, and it was difficult because they were all so closely packed he'd almost pulled the whole thing down while first attempting the task, but then he had to remove the hanger too, to try and see if the waist line of the jeans fitted his waist. And it didn't, of course. 

Three attempts later, and Trowa found himself experiencing what he thought must be yet another natural reaction – frustration. Battling down the unpleasant feeling, he grabbed the nearest pair of jeans, and purposefully strode to the counter where an elderly woman waited.

"I need help," he stated his mission.

"Why of course," the woman beamed at him, "what can I do for you?"

"I think... I need a whole new outfit."

"Mission accepted," the woman winked at Trowa, and he couldn't help but to smile at her total innocence. Would she had said the same thing if she knew she was standing in front of one of the men OZ only three years ago had labelled one of the most dangerous ones in the current era? He doubted it, and doubted she would be so familiar with him as to grab his arm and pull him towards the awaiting clothes had she known his true identity.

The lady had apparently decided exactly what he needed, as she navigated through the racks and stopped with frightening accuracy to pick up an article of clothing she thought he would want. The mystery of the jeans' sizes was solved within moments, a green shirt picked out even quicker, and the assembly of socks, T-shirts, and underwear had been passed down into the basket with only a wink. Shoes and a jacket had taken marginally longer, but in all, Trowa had been totally equipped with a new set of clothes in less than 20 minutes. The old lady smiled, obviously pleased with herself, as she led them both back to the counter.

As she started to add his things up, and pack the clothes away in a large bag, Trowa extracted the check from his pocket, and eyed the slip of paper with the beginning of a proud smile playing on his lips. He had never been shopping for himself before.

"Oh no, dearie, you must go to the bank first and cash it in, then you can come back here," the woman commented as she saw his bank only check.

"Oh. I'm sorry," he apologised for his mistake.

"That's ok, young one. 'Tis your first pay check, yes?"

"Yes," he confirmed, and smiled as she did.

"I will reserve these clothes for you then, just go to the bank across the street and they'll help you," she informed him, and Trowa nodded.

Check still in hand, Trowa set out to his new normal life mission. He found the bank quickly just across the street, and only had to observe proceedings for a moment to realise he should stand in line, and wait for his turn. When it was his turn, he presented the piece of paper to the woman behind the security glass. 

"You want to cash it in, or deposit the money," the dark haired woman asked him, and as he hesitated, not quite sure of what he wanted, she added "do you have a credit card account with any of the big banks, it would be the easiest way to securely handle money?"

He shook his head, and asked "can I open one now?"

"Sure, just fill out this form and I'll process it right away," she handed him an application.

He filled out the fields, leaving the circus' post box in Monte Carlo as his address, then returned the paper. The bank lady quickly scanned his application, and nodded at him.

"Just a moment, Mr. Barton, I'll be right back," she spoke before hurrying out to the back of the bank, application in hand.

As he waited, Trowa discreetly scanned his surroundings, mostly out of habit, but also to pass some time. In two of the corners, there were security cameras, yet the door to the vault was open. Trowa supposed they didn't expect anything out of the ordinary here at the small town bank. Soon, the woman returned, now with more papers in her hands. He signed some of them, and received the bank account rules, as well as an envelope with his secret code, and the plastic card to use in shops. He thanked for her assistance, and left the bank.

Outside the bank, he eyed the piece of white plastic in his hand a bit closer, and for the second time that day, his stomach bottomed out, all by itself. He had to read the name of the financial institute again, just to make sure he didn't purposefully mix up letters, but sure enough, the bank that guaranteed the money was called "Winner Inc." He didn't know what amused him the most, the possibility that he had opened an account in one of Quatre's bank without really noticing first, or that the butterflies in his stomach had returned with a vengeance. /Probably just a coincidence,/ he thought, /Winner Inc would be a suitable name for any kind of successful establishment,/ yet he smiled inwardly at the strange cards faith was playing him; he had thought of Quatre twice this day, and it was still early. The butterflies remained.

Less than an hour after he had first entered the shop, Trowa left it again, equipped with bags that contained enough clothing to quiet Catherine for a while. Or at least he hoped so, the clothes buying mission just wasn't his thing. Tired and feeling remarkably satisfied at his attempt to live a day as a normal human being, Trowa turned his steps towards his mobile home.

But apparently destiny had something else planned for him, for Trowa found himself suddenly lost in the little town. He had turned left where he thought the street down to the harbour was, but instead he found himself facing a narrow street, only sparsely populated with pedestrians. Trowa frowned, a bit disoriented, but decided he couldn't really get lost in a town this small, all streets had to lead somewhere. He stopped outside a little shop, and tried to track his steps backwards, find the erroneous turn, when an object at the corner of his eye caught his attention.

It appeared he had stopped in front of a little gallery, and a shiver went down his spine as he stared at the painting displayed in the window. Although the motif was hardly very original – a man walking down a street, not unlike the one he was currently standing on – his mind froze as he identified the lone man in the painting as himself. 

For an eerie moment, it all felt surreal, and Trowa wondered if he had been tossed into one of those ridiculous TV shows Catherine insisted on watching, where someone was set up for humiliation and amusement of the audience, never realising the trick until this famous man revealed his presence. Apparently it was all supposed to be amusing, but Trowa couldn't help but to feel nervous at the prospect of being publicly exposed on TV for whatever the reason. Still, he discreetly eyed his surroundings through the corners of his eyes, looking for any mysterious men or hidden cameras, before shrugging of the idea and turning his attention back to the painting. 

There was no doubt the man pictured was him, or at least someone with a startling resemblance. Too startling, he thought. Searching the painting for a signature to give him a clue of who had done it gave him nothing, as it wasn't signed. He tried to remember the many people he had met over the years who not only knew how to paint, but also knew him well enough to remember the finer details of him that he now started seeing in the painting. And all of this from memory, as he had never posed for any painting before, or even had his photo taken very often.

There really was only one alternative, although he had never actually seen the young man display his skills – Quatre. This time, the butterflies remained silent, as the coincidence was too weird for his mind to easily digest. He remembered their first meeting, how Quatre had showed him his studio, equipped both with musical instruments and various painting articles such as half-finished works. Searching his memory, he couldn't recall ever seeing this particular work in the room, though. He debated with himself for only a moment, before stepping into the little gallery to find out what was going on.

The gallery keeper was a distinguished gentleman, Trowa supposed, as he greeted the elderly man and stated his mission, gesturing towards the painting in the window. /I should stop thinking about everything as missions, this is supposed to be normal life, I can do things myself without being ordered,/ he thought, before the man replied.

"Oh, you're interested in that painting, huh?"

Trowa only nodded. "Do you know who did it?"

"I'm afraid I cannot give you a name, as he never gave me his, but I can tell you he sold me four or five paintings a few months ago."

Trowa nodded again, a little disappointed with the man's words.

"I only met him twice, and both times he seemed troubled by something," the gallery keeper continued, "I got the feeling he didn't really need the money either, just didn't know what to do with his productions," the man added thoughtfully.

The gallery keeper looked from the painting, then to Trowa, and back to the painting. "It does look like you, doesn't it? Do you know the artist?" the man queried.

"Maybe," Trowa answered truthfully. A sudden impulse, and Trowa knew he had to have this painting, it was important. He had only wasted a few hundred credits on the clothing, and hoped he had enough to purchase the painting from the man. "Can I buy it?" he asked the shop keeper.

"I was going to keep it, but you seem desperate enough," the man laughed. "Since I got them for nearly nothing, it will only cost you 1 000 credits."

"Do you take credit cards?" Trowa smiled faintly at himself, as he found himself repeating a line he had seen on TV once, thinking it would fit the situation.

* * * 

"Oh I don't believe this! You got a painting for your first earned money? A painting?!" Catherine groaned.

Trowa had returned home, and discarded the bags of clothes on his bed to unpack the painting instead. He put the canvas, no larger than a daily magazine, on the desk of drawers where he was supposed to keep his new clothes. Eyeing the painting once again, he completely lost interest in the purchased articles of clothing, and just stared at the scene in front of him.

The young man, the copy of him, was walking down a street with one hand in his pocket, the other one by his side. Strangely enough, the hand was angled peculiarly, and the figure was situated oddly on the picture – a little to the left of the middle. Trowa didn't know anything about art, but thought it odd that the artist would position him-- the young man slightly off the middle. It reminded him of Catherine's camera technique, where the people in the pictures frequently missed half a head, or the angle was all wrong. He bit down a little laugh, and reminded himself to never make the comparison in front of his adopted sister.

"I got some clothes too," Trowa gestured indifferently towards the unopened bags on his bed, still not taking his eyes off the painting on the desk in front of him.

Something about it didn't make sense, something was wrong with it, but he couldn't quite put his finger to exactly what it was that bothered him. He wondered if Quatre had actually painted it, and if there were any clues in the painting in that case. Before he got very far into his analysis, Catherine interrupted him, with some low muttering words not meant for his ears. 

"You don't like it?" he asked her.

Catherine sighed, and defiantly crossed her arms as she stood beside him, glaring at him before she turned her attention to the paining. Trowa watched her from under his bangs, searching for any form of unguarded reaction.

"That looks like you," was Catherine's calm assessment.

Trowa smiled as he nodded; at least it wasn't just him that saw the resemblance.

"It's not signed," Catherine noted.

"I think I know who did it," he commented. "Someone I know from the war. You've met him," his eyes returned to the painting.

"Oh? Not the quiet one, eh?"

"No, the sad one."

"Ah, Quatre. You think he did this?"

"I don't know," he confessed. "Perhaps."

Catherine shrugged. "It's still a strange thing to buy, and you should come eat now."

Trowa nodded and entered the kitchen after the scantily clad young woman.

* * *

Later that evening, Catherine watched the local TV, as Trowa sat down on the couch opposite of the now silent girl. He eyed her thoughtfully, before grabbing an apple from the bowl on the table between them, polishing it on his arm. From his position on the couch, he could easily see the picture he had acquired, and noted with satisfaction that every time he watched it, the butterflies returned, even if only for a short moment. It was more than just a fluttering in his stomach, he noted, the "butterfly thing" included several other reactions, such as a slightly quickening pulse, and an odd sense of happiness. He couldn't figure it out.

"Catherine, what's the feeling of--" he hesitated, suddenly aware of how strange it would sound.

"What," she answered, only half paying attention to him through the soap opera on TV.

"Butterflies in your stomach?"

"Butterflies?" Catherine echoed, now watching him.

"Yeah..." he felt stupid now; it had been a stupid question.

"You mean like when you meet someone after a long time, and that person makes your stomach go all funny on you?" Catherine queried, all serious looking.

Trowa nodded, yes, that was it.

"And you suddenly feel a bit warmer? And strangely happy, all of a sudden?" Catherine's beginning smile should probably have warned him that something amused his sister, but the accuracy with which she pin pointed his feelings was more remarkable and interesting to pay attention to.

"Yes, exactly," Trowa replied, curious over his new discovery.

"Trowa! You're in love!" Catherine screeched, before tossing a pillow at him. Caught unprepared, it hit him straight in the face.

"I'm not!" he retorted eventually, a bit too late, and tossed the pillow back at her. In love?

"How would you know if you don't even know what butterflies are?" Catherine laughed, and tossed another pillow in his general direction.

Trowa fell silent, knowing it was impossible to argue with Catherine, especially about something he didn't know the first thing about. Love? She thought he was in love? Wouldn't he have noticed it himself before? He thought back at the different feelings he had experienced during the day, seemingly for the first time. Perhaps she was right anyway... He felt his cheeks go warm as he made the connection between the butterflies and what had caused them in the first place – thoughts of Quatre. He was in love with Quatre? His eyes went to the painting still sitting on the desk beside him. Sure enough, the jumble of feelings returned, and he simply knew he was blushing.

"So, who is this mystery girl you've been hiding from me this long," Catherine's deliberately velvety voice tried to lure the secret out of him.

Girl? Oh, right. Normal people fell in love with girls. Well, not all of them, he supposed, at least not the girls themselves. But then it wasn't love after all, because he was a boy and Quatre was a boy too. He felt strangely relieved and disappointed at the same time. Relieved that it wasn't yet another complicated feeling to learn, disappointed for the same reason. He figured he might as well admit, and get the proper feeling identified.

"Actually, it's a boy," he spoke as nonchalantly as possible, and took a bite out of the apple.

"Oh," Catherine's short reply came. "I suppose that works too," she mused. "Still the same thing, see. Love."

Trowa nearly choked on his apple.

Suddenly a sly smile spread over Catherine's face. "This doesn't have anything to do with the painting, does it?"

Trowa was at a loss. How did she always know everything? 

"Oh! I should have known this ages ago," Catherine berated herself between laughing fits.

"You should?" 

"Yes... Quatre. Of course," she replied cryptically.

Trowa was confused now; Catherine had known this for a long time? He fell silent, and Catherine eventually turned back to her TV shows, smile only slowly fading from her face. If possible, Trowa was even more confused now than earlier the day. He didn't know until two minutes ago that he was in love with Quatre, but Catherine had seen it ages ago? He stopped to reflect a bit on the former part of the equation... he was in love with Quatre? The butterflies in his stomach was love. His mind fell silent as he digested this new piece of information. It felt nice - the fluttering feeling, the warmth. And still, there was something missing.

"Now go to bed, it's late," Catherine startled him out of his thoughts, much later.

"Yes mommy," he quipped teasingly, and earned yet another pillow flung his way.

* * *

Although his mind was firmly set on achieving what Catherine called a normal life, his body had yet to become accustomed to a life in peace. Trowa, always on schedule, woke up every 90 minutes throughout the night, half expecting one of his former comrades tap him on the shoulder and let him know it was his turn to take the night watch. Although it hadn't happened for years, he still had problems sleeping all night, and this night was no exception. Outside the open trailer window, crickets chirped softly in the summer night, and the room was dimly lit from the streetlight outside.

Trowa sat up in his bed, stretching a bit while waiting for his sleeping cycle to realise it was neither morning, nor his time at the watch. The painting caught his attention again, and now he felt like he could gaze at it without Catherine's disapproving glances or teasing words. She hadn't told him, but he knew that when he had watched the painting for over an hour earlier the day, she was probably starting to think him a bit obsessed with it. Maybe he was. He just couldn't let go of the thought that maybe Quatre had actually painted it, and for some reason wanted Trowa in the picture. Quatre and Trowa... the butterflies returned, again.

It puzzled him that Quatre would think so highly of him at times, and even want him in a painting. Quatre puzzled him. Quatre made him feel warm, right now. He thought back at the last time they had met, at a Preventer meeting back in space last spring. It had been over a year ago, and the last time he spoke with Quatre. He didn't really know why, despite the obvious fact that Quatre didn't know where the circus would travel, and Trowa hadn't used the phone number given to him by the blond. He couldn't tell why he had never done that, perhaps he had just not been ready for any kind of normal life. Thinking back at the past year, Trowa supposed he had actually been hiding from real life, licking his wounds as Catherine had called it. He hadn't even touched the flute Quatre had presented him with, Trowa realised with a little pang of guilt. 

Guilt; this was how it felt. This was what plagued Quatre back then. The feeling of having let someone down, although he really could have done much more to keep in touch with Quatre. They were friends, after all, weren't they? He turned his eyes back to the painting, sighing. Quatre had looked melancholy, the gallery keeper had said. If it had been Quatre, of course. Somehow, Trowa knew it had to be. His eyes flew over the barely lit painting, watching the details under the guise of midnight. Then he noted an anomaly in the texture of the surface. Just to the right of where he was in the picture, and partially overlapping his painted hand, the surface was a bit dimmer, less shiny. He moved around in the bed to see the part in different lighting, but every angle revealed the same – a part of the painting looked different.

Trowa dragged himself out of bed, not bothering to wrap a blanket around his half naked body, and padded silently over to the painting. He picked it up, and went to the little kitchen area of their trailer, where he switched on the light. Blinking before his eyes adjusted to the blinding light, he waited a while before examining the painting more thoroughly. In the stark light, he still couldn't tell any difference in the surface. He wiped his hands at a towel before examining the surface with his fingertips, trailing them over the edge of the different area. Still no difference. 

Frowning, Trowa realised his hands were too callused to be able to pick up the finer differences, and tried the more unorthodox method as he held the painting to his cheek. He felt weird standing there in the middle of the night, almost naked, in their kitchen, rubbing his face to a painting, but it produced the desired results. Or so he thought, at least. Maybe it was like with that woman he thought was Quatre; he only thought he felt the difference in surfaces on the painting because he wanted to. He decided to go back to bed, and just ask Catherine in the morning. Burying his face, and the accompanying smile, in the pillow, he once again reflected over the day. The smile widened, a little tingle went through his body – he was really in love with Quatre!

* * * 

Grudgingly, and only after she had her morning coffee, Catherine had agreed that there was indeed a difference in the two areas on the painting, but had seen nothing strange in it. She suggested that perhaps the artist had used different paint for that part only, but Trowa thought that sounded strange. After having been yelled at again for paying too much attention to a painting when he had other things to do, and mildly been accused of insanity when he suggested Quatre may have changed in the painting, Trowa finally pushed it to the back of his mind, intending to solve the puzzle at a later time. Maybe he would even take it back to the shopkeeper and ask for advice.

Which was exactly what he found himself doing, late in the afternoon that day. The old man nodded a greeting in recognition, and welcomed Trowa into his office in the back of the shop.

"You back already? Changed your mind?"

Trowa shook his head, and put the painting on the cluttered desk. "I want to ask you something," he explained.

"I've already told you what I remember, but go right ahead, son."

Trowa smiled before he continued. "Do you see anything unusual with the surface of the paining," he asked the old man.

The shopkeeper squinted his eyes, and Trowa realised this was the wrong strategy. Much like his own hands had not been sensitive enough to pick up the shift, the old man's eyes were weak by old age and less useful, although he must once have been able to pick up what Trowa wanted him too with his bare eyes. Instead, he touched his fingertips over the surface, and motioned the man to do the same.

"Do you feel the different textures?"

The man ran his fingers over the painting a couple of times, eyes closed, and then nodded. "Yes, this painting has been altered. Different temperatures when the same paint was used would typically cause these kinds of shifts. That's very perceptive of you, young man," the old shop keeper nodded his approval of Trowa's observation skills.

"Altered?" Trowa asked. "In which way?"

"It's likely that someone, probably the artist as there is no change in theme or style, added this part after the painting was finished, for some reason. Perhaps he changed his mind on the motif," the man nodded to himself.

"So there might be something else underneath these dim parts?"

"Yes."

"Could you restore it for me?" Trowa asked, hoping he used the right vocabulary borrowed from yet another TV movie. He never thought they would become so handy..

"Of course, but you have to be aware that this will probably ruin the value of the painting, and possible the painting too. It's easier to just x-ray it to see what's underneath."

"I see. Please restore it anyway," Trowa asked the old man, certain that whatever was covered up would be worth it, and possibly reveal the secret of the paining.

"Naturally. It will take a few days, come back on Monday, I might be finished by then."

Trowa nodded and left the shop.

* * *

The remainder of the week went painfully slow, Trowa thought, and he realised he had learned another one of life's little secrets – impatience. Stifling the urge to run to the shop at the end of every day, he worked himself tired enough to just be able to fall into the bed and sleep for a whole night, without interruption and dreams. If Catherine noted any difference in his behaviour, she didn't comment on it. First thing Monday morning, he stole out early after having fed and watered the lions, and went back to the town. He glanced at his clock, and realised he was five minutes early for the shop to open, but decided against knocking at the door and publicly display his impatience. Two minutes past the hour, the shopkeeper opened and let him in.

"Here already? I take it you're serious about the painting then, young man?"

Trowa smiled, and followed the man into the office. Presented with the sight of the now restored painting, he could only utter one word, too stunned to think clearly.

"Quatre..."

"Oh, that's his name then? This is the youth that sold me the painting," the man grinned, and gestured towards the new, but still the same painting.

The painting that had previously only showed Trowa, now featured the smiling Quatre by his side, in the spot where he had felt the change in surface. The first thing he noticed was the blond hair and shy smile, gazing up at Trowa, and the butterflies that seemed to have adopted his stomach lately returned. He didn't mind much at all, and couldn't help but to smile back at the painting. Then he noticed the painted version of him was holding Quatre's hand, and that his previously sad looking face had been replaced with a smile to match Quatre's...

"I take it he's a friend of yours?" the man commented.

"Yes..." Trowa managed, still too stunned to be able to make any more intelligent comments.

* * *

Later that day, Catherine once again found him lost in thought, blankly staring at the painting in front of him.

"Really Trowa," she started, then went quiet as she noted the changes in the painting.

"You had it changed?" she asked.

"No, it was painted over before the gallery got it, I had it restored," Trowa explained.

"Hm. It really was him then, huh?" Catherine eyed the blond that had been recovered in the picture.

Trowa didn't think a reply was needed, but nodded nevertheless. It had been Quatre, and the purpose of that whole day had been to find the painting. His mind spun at the thought of the coincidences that had brought him to it – if he hadn't seen the blond girl in the shop, he wouldn't have felt the butterflies, and wouldn't have sat down at that cafe to wonder about them. Without the girl at the cafe, he wouldn't have found the cheap shop, or the bank... and he wouldn't have got lost on the way home, or found the shop on the narrow street. It all had begun with the girl he thought was Quatre. He felt dizzy.

"Trowa!"

Catherine's words snapped him out of his reverie, and he realised she'd been talking to him. "Hm?"

"You're holding hands with blondie here, is there something you haven't told me?" she winked.

Despite himself, Trowa felt his face go all warm, as he tried to explain. "No... I mean... no." He managed, and Catherine's' loopy smile told him he had failed to convince her. He tried again, "No."

"Sure, fine, whatever," she elbowed him gently and winked, before returning back to the kitchen to prepare an early lunch.

It had been the truth, so why did it feel like he was lying? There hadn't been anything between him and Quatre. Except a few stolen glances, perhaps. Maybe even an errant touch... Thinking back of what he and Quatre had done together, the smallest details suddenly seemed to come alive. How their hands had touched almost by mistake quite often, how they had accidentally brushed past each other while passing in corridors, the sound of Quatre's voice when he had been freed from the zero system, thanks to his blond friend. /He had been crying, I know it./ 

Their music, the touch of Quatre's skin under his hands as he bandaged the injured blond up, the radiant smile as Quatre woke up again at the hospital, finding Trowa by his side. More and more details unravelled before his mind's eye, details that formed a more complex picture of friendship. The things Quatre had said, the way he had responded to them. It had been a form of courting, and he had responded, in his own quiet way.

/It is quite possible,/ Trowa thought with a start, /that I have been in love all this time without realising it./

But then they had drifted apart. Or had they? Perhaps it was he that hid from Quatre, not yet able to acknowledge the full extent to what he thought was only a friendship. And Quatre had no way to find him, as he had never left any notes. Trowa suddenly felt his heart sink. If there had been something more between him and Quatre, surely it was all gone by now. Forlornly he gazed at their entwined hands on the painting. Why hadn't he seen it earlier? He felt a complete failure again, anyone normal would have seen this years ago. Even Catherine had said she'd seen it long before him. Almost without noticing it, Trowa slowly slipped back into the blessed numbness again. /Anything is better than the knowledge of that you've lost a friend without even seeing it. I'm not normal./

* * *

Lonely notes from the flute that Quatre had given Trowa a year ago drifted over the open field where their circus trailer was parked. Two days had gone since the painting had been returned to him, and they had moved on to the next city on their schedule. While the others were unpacking, Trowa found himself temporarily out of work, and his melancholy mood slipped back in place. He hadn't touched a flute for over three years, but found he remembered the notes of Quatre's song by heart, and played what once had been a joyous melody in a much slower and sadder tempo. He opened his eyes again, to see Catherine sitting cross-legged in front of him on the lawn. She probably had been there for a while. His mind screamed at him, /she saw you, deny everything at once, deny every feeling,/ but his heart didn't obey the order. Trowa simply averted his eyes, avoiding Catherine's questioning gaze.

"How long do you plan on torturing yourself like this, Trowa?"

Ever perceptive, Catherine had of course already noted his change in attitude. He sighed; did nothing escape that woman?

"Why don't you just call him? Talk to him?"

"I don't have his phone number," he tried feebly, not putting much effort into the conversation.

"Liar," she frowned.

"Catherine, I can't just call him after all these years, he probably has a life now." He turned to disassemble the flute again, and put it back into its case. "And why would he want me anyway?" he continued mentally, before realising he had actually spoken it aloud. He scolded himself for the slip, but Catherine didn't notice it.

"Then write him a letter, tell him how you feel. If he doesn't want you, he doesn't have to reply. Safe enough," she tried.

"I suppose," he answered, without any real conviction.

"I hate to do this to you, Trowa, but do you remember what you told me when you left me for him on L2?"

Trowa knew Catherine's lecturing tone of voice well, and chose the wise route of not replying, she would tell him what was on her mind anyway, whether he wanted it or not.

"Humans are supposed to act according to their feelings, or something like that. So, why don't you right now? You did back then. Your heart knew what it wanted, even if your memory was gone."

Trowa didn't know what to say, so he kept quiet.

"So think about it, at least. Or big sister will have to take drastic measures to ensure happiness," she grinned, and he had no doubt in his mind that she really meant it.

He laughed a little at her attempts, before returning to disassembling the flute, quietly considering her words. She was right, of course, but that didn't mean he had to do the right thing in return. He wanted to see Quatre, and sometimes he was pretty sure Quatre would want to see him too, yet he hesitated. He wondered if this was part of being normal as well, then discarded the whole concept of trying to be something he had never been in the first place. He would just settle for being himself, normal or not. Not that he knew what he really was anyway. 

Trowa snorted at himself, /your mind is walking in circles/.

/Well at least I'm considering changing old patterns,/ he tried.

/So what do you want,/ he asked himself. 

Silence.

Did he really not want anything? For the first time he could remember, he was free to do as he pleased, which naturally would be confusing to anyone. He thought of the lions, brought up in a cage, and wondered what they would do if he just opened their cage to set them free. They had their instincts, he supposed, even if they had been made to suppress them in order to survive this life. He wondered if he was the same.

/I want to see Quatre again, even if it's only for a short moment./

Still feeling the need to justify the decision to himself, Trowa rationalised. He hadn't been normal, hadn't been ready back then. But it felt better now, he felt free. He was free. Quatre had dropped numerous invitations of various kinds on him back then, he realised on hindsight. He just hadn't been experienced in life enough to realise it. A day of being normal was all it took to change his perspective... Once again, he felt stupid for not seeing it before. But now...

It was time to reply. 

* * *

"Did you decide what to do?"

Catherine dropped the basket of laundry on the lawn, and reached for the wet garments, pinning them up on a line, one by one. Trowa handed her the wet clothes, quietly considering his words.

"I'm sending him the painting," he replied, softly.

Catherine laughed a little, "well if he doesn't understand an invitation card of that size, he's not worth your time, most precious brother." 

"You think it's a bad idea?"

"No, not if your heart has already decided," she said, sincerely.

* * *

Trowa had checked their dates and schedules, and since they would stay there for another two weeks, he had jotted down their current location on the contact card for the circus. More than that wasn't needed; the painting should be message enough, and the card provided Quatre with the address. In two weeks, they would go to Monte Carlo for the festival, but he didn't think Quatre needed that long time to get the message. Either he wanted to talk, or he didn't. Two weeks should be enough. He hoped. Then he started thinking it was too short notice, it was presumptuous of him to think Quatre would come running, just like that. Insecurity invaded his mind, and the days went slowly by.

* * *

It was early in the morning one of those dazzling days that promised heat and no escape from the Mediterranean sun. Already busy with the early morning chores of watering the animals, she saw him long before he entered the circus area, and Catherine smiled as she recognised the blond slowly approaching their home. Dressed in casual clothes suitable for a hot summer day, the young man could have been mistaken for a tourist just like any other, but the bag in his hand told her this person was going somewhere, unlike the customers of the circus. 

The blond stopped by the entrance to their inhabited area, before spotting her. She imagined that the little delay in his steps was hesitation, perhaps he was gathering up courage, before approaching her. Catherine pretended she hadn't seen him, and let him walk right up to her, before acknowledging his presence.

"Hello, I think I recognise you," he said as she had put the hose down.

"Hi there!" she winked with familiarity to make the hesitant boy feel more at ease. "I'm Catherine, and I think you're Quatre?" she continued.

"Yes. I..." the blond faltered, obviously searching for words. 

/He's nervous,/ Catherine assessed. /And every bit as embarrassed as Trowa was when I teased him about the butterflies./ She smiled her most maternal smile, and gestured to the boy to come closer. /They're both filled with butterflies./

"It's ok, you don't have to explain to me, I'll take you to Trowa," she motioned for him to follow her.

"Uhm, thank you," Quatre managed, smiling a little.

* * *

Trowa squinted his eyes in the bright morning sun, closing the cage to the lions again, after having provided them with their breakfast. He was starting to get hungry himself, and thought of getting a snack before returning to the animals. Trowa washed his hands in a bucket of ice cold water, and then poured some of the cold liquid over his already sweaty body. Wiping his hands on a terry cloth, and then rubbing it against his face, he heard Catherine approaching, talking to someone. Breakfast forgotten, his heart skipped a beat as he recognised the other voice. He lowered his towel.

"Quatre..."

"Hello, Trowa," the said blond smiled at him.

* * *

"So this is the butterfly boy?" Catherine winked.

"Catherine!" Trowa cringed, embarrassed.

The were both seated around a table in his trailer, introductions and greetings having passed without too much embarrassed silence, and now Catherine had insisted on making them both a proper breakfast. The young woman peeked her head into an open window, before disappearing again, snickering. 

"Butterfly boy?" Quatre echoed her words, amusement playing on his voice.

"She's just teasing me," Trowa quickly explained, not sure if the words had any other connotations he wasn't aware of.

Quatre nodded with a smile, and the room went quiet again. From under his bangs, Trowa regarded the blond, and watched as his smile faded, replaced with a decidedly more sombre looking mood.

"I don't know if you want me to explain the painting, but I won't deny anything if you ask..." Quatre began, and Trowa thought it sounded like he had rehearsed the phrase many times before. "I suppose I shouldn't have done it, it was foolish of me. Just an impossible dream," Quatre trailed off, eyes focusing on the plate in front of him on the table with particular interest, and this time, it was Trowa's turn to smile.

"No, that's not true," Trowa smiled, before folding his hand over Quatre's on the table. "I... I've waited too long already. I have to tell you what happened that day I found the painting," Trowa smiled at Quatre, who looked positively stunned.

Quatre smiled back, and as his mind made the connection that Trowa's hand was still on his, his cheeks suddenly caught colour.

"Please do," Quatre breathed, eyes searching Trowa with hopeful curiosity.

-end-

* * *

   [1]: mailto:sea@txq.nu



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